This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
by gilenagile
Summary: Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive? Chapter 10, Weekend.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:** I will never admit to writing this . . . Oh yeah, I don't own them.  
**Title**: This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
**Author:** gilenagile . . . some other one, not me  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Episode Reference:** Takes place after Camera  
**Feedback:** Only if you don't want to hit me with a blunt object: gilenagile@hotmail.com  
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 1: Fluff

It was a dark and stormy night—and if it hadn't been he would have gotten the hell out of there. As it was he was trapped, row upon row of metallic monsters, mouths gaping open, staring back at him. It was like a scene from a bad science fiction movie, he could see the blurb now: "Man against machine--man doesn't do so good."

"Logan, pay attention. You'll only get one shot at this."

Max was with him—_she_ knew what she was doing.  He lifted an eyebrow, smiled smugly at his adversaries, and scooted the chair around toward her. A final look over his shoulder, _I'll be baack. _

"If you miss the rinse cycle you won't be able to add the fabric softner." She was leaning against the washing machine, her hips just so, looking like an auto show model draped over a Ferrari. He didn't care how much it cost, he was buying—throw in the extra cup holders while you're at it. 

His stupid smile faded. If he actually had any money, he wouldn't be spending his Friday night at Super Suds Laundromat with genetically designed perfection. No, he'd be cooking it something French and hard to pronounce, and plying it with a nice chilled chardonnay. 

"Hey! Maybe you're sitting too close to those dryers, your brain appears to be fried."

Lesson one: pay attention when Max speaks. If only her mouth wasn't attached to that gorgeous body it wouldn't be so difficult. But even that mouth alone . . . He was finding it hard to focus. Maybe he was coming down with something, or it could be the fumes from the duffel bag of dirty laundry sitting on his lap. His most hated cliché came to mind: you don't miss money until you don't have any. 

Well, it wasn't really the money he missed it was the little lady it had paid to take care of inconveniences like dust, and soap scum, and dirty socks. He stifled a sigh; no use crying over spilled millions of dollars, at least not in front of Max. He doubted she would be sympathetic to the fact that his oodles of dinero had sheltered him from mindless tasks like laundry for thirty some years.

"You got it? Put clothes in washer, fill detergent dispenser, select one of five cycles, add fabric softner during final rinse." 

Well, maybe this wasn't as mindless as he'd thought.

He flashed her a disarmingly confident smile, thankful that capitalism hadn't gone under before his orthodontic treatments had been paid for. He would bluff, he was an excellent bluffer, especially when it came to himself. 

He waited until Max was busy with her own wash, before selecting a machine at the far end of the row and dumping the contents of the bag into it. Hastily he slammed the lid shut hoping the aroma hadn't had time to travel to her genetically enhanced nostrils. Sometimes he really hated Manticore perfection. 

Cycle selection, detergent . . . ok why wasn't the stupid thing working. Max's was purring like a kitten. 

"Coins Logan." 

One disarmingly confident laugh to the rescue, _I knew that._ Damn—he'd hoped the quarters were for video games. He suspected the cycle—hey, he was learning the lingo—would take a while. He looked around, just as he thought, nothing to do. Max was sitting on top of her washer reading a magazine—atta girl show it who's boss_._ That position wasn't a requirement he hoped, it would take a lot of maneuvering on his part . . . no Max would have mentioned it. He was suddenly glad he had heeded lesson one.

What to do . . . he wheeled to the pile of magazines set on a rickety table in the corner, maybe he could find an interesting article or two: "How to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed," "Six Naughty Ways to Satisfy Your Special Someone," "Explore the Geography of the G-spot Together." Good grief, decadent filth like this shouldn't be left lying around—maybe Max could take some of it home with her.

He moved on to the notice board. If he tilted his head back 60 degrees and squinted he could just about read the bottom row of tattered papers: "WANTED: handy man, services urgently required, equipment must be in good working order." This place was a den of iniquity. He had no idea what he had been missing all this time. But Max had been frequenting Laundromats for years . . . he wheeled toward her. She'd better damn well be reading _National Geographic_. 

"Would you stop prowling." 

"I don't prowl." Oh, good comeback--hope that one didn't make her fall off her perch. "I scoot." Even better—whatcha going to do for an encore, topple into one of those industrial size washers? Man, look at those babies. He scooted—very gracefully, even if he did think so himself—over to the line of gleaming giants. Bet you could get a whole year's worth of dirty clothes into one of those—he gulped, stunned by his own genius. No, wait . . . 365 times two dirty socks, the neighbors would have moved out by then. 

"Want some Snuggle?"

He almost did topple in. "_What_?" Not in his wildest dreams had he thought up this particular scenario—but, what the heck, if she was willing . . . 

"Fabric softner." She held out the bottle. He scooted back toward her—considerably less gracefully. 

Four collisions later—he had no idea washing machines were made of the hardest metal know to man—he was staring at his particular washer. The water was filling up; it had to be the final rinse—but final . . . that implied previous. How was a guy to know if this was the final one? Sweat began to bead on his forehead—_keep cool, keep cool_--bluff. She was watching him. He could feel it. _Don't look at her lad, good dental work won't help you now_, just act confident_._ He lifted the lid and poured the liquid in—damn he was good, hand steady as a rock.

"You're a complete idiot."

That wasn't the correct response. Now he was getting upset. He'd followed her instructions exactly—hadn't he? That deserved some measure of respect—oops, maybe the whole bottle wasn't required. Turn, smile, don't crash into anything.

***

She was wearing down, he could tell. "Now you put the wet clothes in the dryer, IN-THE-DRYER." She handed him the basket of soggy garments. He prowled over to the wall of gaping machines. Wait a minute, . . . they had holes in the front--big ones—wouldn't everything fall out? He tottered in confusion, not an easy thing to do in a wheelchair. 

"Here," he thrust the basket back at her "you do it. I've got to go . . . " _think, you idiot . . . think_, "go get some . . . Snuggle." And go drown himself in the nearest Maytag while he was at it. 

***

Everything was under control. Yes, that refreshing dunk in the restroom sink had done him the world of good. He found his eyes were making involuntary revolutions with the contents of the dryers in front of him. Under control . . . under control . . . it was hypnotic—he was surprised the CIA hadn't been utilizing these things for years. T-shirt, sock, underwear, I confess.

He was loosing it. Why didn't she just take him home . . . _now_. His head was joining his eyes in their revolutions. He was getting dizzy_. Focus, focus you fool, before you end up in a basket yourself._ T-shirt, sock, woman's under garment . . . suddenly he was feeling a lot more alert. It was black--wait for the next rotation . . . wait for it—black and lacey. He felt so much better. If only they had shared a dryer, their socks dancing together, T-shirts touching, boxers and--he squinted—thongs (YES! There was a God) intertwined.  

"You OK?"

Don't say a word. She can't make you. Confession is not good for the continuation of life as you know it.

"I'm fine." Disarming grin to the rescue—yes he was feeling much better. "I was thinking maybe we could . . . "—_snuggle--_ "grab a cup of coffee on the way home."

She flashed a brilliant smile in his direction. He admired her dental work—perfection. 

They folded their clothes in companionable silence. All of his seemed to have turned the same shade of dirty gray—_interesting_.

"See . . . that wasn't so bad was it?"

Not bad. Traumatic. "No, of course not. It was really nice of you to help. Thongs . . . I mean thanks . . . " He looked around frantically for a live outlet he could insert his brain into. He was never going to do laundry again—to hell with the neighbors.

* * *

I was thinking this could be the first chapter in a multi-part series . . . "Fluff" . . . "More Fluff" . . . "Even More Fluff"  . . . eventually ending up with say . . .  "Lint"—get the idea? Or I could just go get a lobotomy now. Let me know what you think.


	2. Freezer Burn

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1  
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?  
**AN:** 1) If bad taste offends you, hit that Back button now. 2) Well, the consensus seems to be for the lobotomy (see footnote chapter 1)—so here's chapter two.  
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 2: Freezer Burn

He had to say it. It was big. "It's really big."

"Biggest I've ever seen," Max smiled appreciatively. "Not that size is everything."

But you had to love big. It had been a long time, and he hadn't shown it to that many people, in fact, he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. Valerie hadn't been that impressed, but then she'd been sloshed most of the time. However, Daphne had liked it immensely. And Max was starting to get that same glint in her eyes . . .. 

"They say it's the biggest in the North American continent." 

"Wow." 

Who would have thought that taking Max to this, the mother of all grocery stores, would have such an effect on her? Women—you just never could tell. Maybe having to clip coupons and shop at emporiums like Save-a-Bunch wasn't such a bad thing after all. Not that he didn't miss the select delicatessens and the small specialty grocers he was used to, but now he was one of the poverty-stricken masses. Yeah, just a regular Joe, spending an evening shopping with the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world. 

"What are you smirking at?" She actually sounded happy with him, unlike her mood on their previous outing. He smirked even more, almost wheeling over an old woman trying to pry a cart from the row lined up outside the entrance. Max stopped to help her. She was really becoming very civic spirited—his good influence, no doubt. 

This evening was turning out just fine. Logan relaxed--what could possibly go wrong? OK, maybe the store manager would be a little upset at what Max had just done to that cart, but they could recycle it surely—in its present condition, it would make excellent coat hangers. Besides, if they moved really fast—as fast as that little old lady for instance—they could avoid any unpleasantness altogether.

Apparently, Max had had the same brilliant idea and had beaten him into the store. She stood transfixed, looking at aisle upon aisle of semi-stocked shelves, cart at the ready. He stopped abruptly, faced with a sudden dilemma. Should they share the cart? That might seem presumptuous on his part, their groceries in such close proximity. She probably wasn't ready for such intimacy. No, he would have to have his own--but how was he going to push and wheel at the same time? Maybe he could just rustle up a Manticore geneticist to grow him a couple of extra arms. He glanced over at Max, possibly the only girl on the planet who looked ravishing under fluorescent lighting. She really was perfect. A couple of extra arms could come in handy.

Max seemed to sense his confusion. "Why don't you try one of those?" She was pointing to a row of motorized chairs with baskets on front. _Man_--_wonder how much horsepower those babies pack_? He made the transfer and settled in for the ride. OK, where was the throttle? Top speed?  Well, he'd just have to find out. 

This reminded him of that motorized, miniature, ride-along jeep he'd had as a kid—at least he'd had it until he'd run over Margo's cat. Not that he was trying to mind you—he'd really expected the cat to move a lot faster. Ah . . . old memories. They were actually close to Margo's part of town, maybe she was grocery shopping. How fast could _she_ move, he wondered. No-- she'd have the maids do the shop, and they were no challenge, they'd always been smart enough to get out of the way.

He wondered if Max would mind if he did a lap of the store right off. He could say it was a reconnaissance mission. Surely, _she_ would appreciate that. Turning to present his plan for approval, he caught a glimpse of perfection disappearing into aisle seven. What was she doing? The aisles were clearly numbered, one to . . . he couldn't see that far. Clearly, reconnaissance was a good idea—what if she got lost amid the baguettes and pitted ripe olives. 

He motored after her. This was typical Max, rush right in, no plan of action. He would extract her and they would proceed to aisle one. She was filling her cart already. What was that stuff? Canned vegetables? What  . . . they came in cans? And he had been shopping at the farmers' market all these years, paying exorbitant prices and struggling through crowds. Although, he had become really good at it. The last time strawberries had come to town he had left a trail of bodies in his wake. Sometimes the chair had is uses, especially if you had an umbrella or two sticking out of the sides. Now where was she off to? You just had to wonder what would happen if Max were leading the U.S. into battle: total disorganization, but plenty of canned carrots.

He was trying to catch up to her, but there were too many distractions. This place was amazing. Just look at that . . . Little Debbie snack cakes. He hadn't seen those since he was a kid. Hey, the expiration date was almost as old as he was, how nostalgic.  He popped them into his basket. 

Still no sign of Max, might as well see what was down the next aisle. He stopped abruptly, unable to believe his eyes. This had to be some kind of nasty joke. No . . . the package definitely said "Jell-O." He had always assumed that gunk was produced in hospital basements from . . . well he'd tried not to think about that. People actually ate this stuff voluntarily? It truly was a sick, sick world. Better find Max, before she stumbled on anything as horrific.

He varoomed along the back aisle. There she was, in the freezer section, admiring a row of chest freezers, the fluorescent lighting reflecting off the metal casing surrounding her in an angelic aura. He wished he'd brought his camera. 

"Where the hell have you been?" 

Well, that kind of ruined the atmosphere. OK, down to business. "Could you grab a couple of packs of ice cream?" Better not risk falling head first into the freezer case. That probably wouldn't impress her a great deal.

He tried not to look as Max bent over. Did she really have to wear her pants so tight—well in public, anyway? He felt his temperature rising. Oh no, speaking of things rising . . .

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

"It doesn't matter," . . . as long as it was cold and he could carry it on his lap. His eyes were riveted as she rummaged through the flavors. _Stop it, stop it . . _._ don't ogle_. Ever since the trip to Super Suds, she had seemed a bit suspicious of his motives in asking her on these little expeditions. He'd better not add fuel to the fire. Think of something else; his shopping list for instance. Let's see--things left to get-- cucumber, melons . . . _no, no_ . . . think of . . . dead kittens . . . nuclear war . . . Margo.

"Damn, the packs on top are smushy." She delved deeper into the case. "Found one of each, and they're rock hard." She straightened and turned to face him.

_OH MY GOD_—they certainly were. Had the woman never heard of the padded bra or the baggy T-shirt? She was out to kill him, torment him to death.    

"Give me those  . . . the ice cream I mean . . . just . . .go . . . go find . . . the painkiller aisle." His head was starting to throb.

A handful of Sominex later, he was starting to feel OK. Although, the tablets Bling usually gave him didn't have this effect. Still the package had promised instant relief – "feel rested and refreshed." Just the ticket. Yeah, this evening was furning out just tine. Max was getting a little impatient though. Better pay attention to what she was saying. Remember lesson 1: pay attention when Max speaks. _Focus_.

"We should get some produce."

"_NO_!" God, who was yelling— now his headache was back. _Focus; _avoid the produce section at all cost. He didn't want to have to wear the ice cream again—it was starting to get smushy. 

She was starting to look at him in a strange way--not the strange way he had dreamt of. He had to get out of there. Quickly he turned the chair and started to chug down the aisle--strange, it wouldn't seem to go in a straight line anymore.

"Logan. Look out!" 

A wall of Campbells soup cans was rapidly approaching. He pulled on the brakes . . . uh oh . . . he suspected they hadn't been recently inspected. So, this was how it was going to end; death by Andy Wharhol—an artistic, but nonetheless, humiliating way to go. His grandmother would have appreciated it, but she'd liked Hockney for God's sake. Still, no time for aesthetic debate now, destiny was hurtling toward him—Cream of Mushroom—somehow he'd hoped for something more meaningful.

***

"Logan . . . Logan." There were two of her. At another time, he might find this somewhat exciting but right now he couldn't cope. "Just breath deeply." They were outside in the parking lot. He was alive and apparently unharmed--he checked for damages-- well, except for a bump the size of Mt. Rainer on his head.

She already had the groceries packed in the Aztec. She really was an angel. Now she was helping him transfer back to his chair. No, wait . . . he hadn't had a chance to test this baby's top speed, just one more lap of the store . . . _Ouch_. His fingers were being pried off the handlebars—hey, angels weren't meant to bend one's fingers backwards, were they?

"Get in the car. I'll drive you home and help put away your groceries. We'd better get that ice cream in the freezer." 

She was so sweet and thoughtful. She deserved better than him. He sighed. "Sometimes life just isn't fair."

"I know Logan. It's alright."

No it wasn't. It was upright. His damn freezer was an upright. It truly was a cold, cold world.

* * *

Thanks for all the feedback on chapter one. I really appreciate it. Now onto chapter 3 . . . you can take at least one more, can't you? Don't answer that. Let's see, where to on next week's outing . . . any suggestions? Nice ones.


	3. Cut!

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1  
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?  
**AN:** 1) Wow, thanks for all the suggestions. Don't worry, I won't mention any names when I steal . . . er . . . use them. Thanks to Jojo for the gas station idea. 2) Standard warning regarding bad taste applies.   
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 3: Cut!

Well, it had finally gone down, in fact, you had to look hard to see it at all. Logan breathed a sigh of relief. Bling had insisted he put ice on it, and that had seemed to do the trick. He wheeled up to the mirror and squinted just to make sure—no, there was no way Max could possibly notice it, no matter how close they got. 

That bump on his head had been a doozey though. Not since he'd head butted Margo in the stomach back in--'98 it must have been—had he'd had one like it. That had been an accident too. It had been during the annual Cale family 'running of the bulls' party-- his grandmother had always insisted on commemorating Hemingway's birthday--and Margo should have known better than to wear red. Although, surprisingly, she hadn't really been that upset. In fact, she had bragged about her "abs of steel" for weeks after--for almost as long as it had taken his head to resume its normal shape. In hindsight, he suspected her reinforced panties had been reinforced with something more substantial than lycra. Ah . . . old memories. 

He brushed his fingers through his hair to make sure any trace of the protrusion was covered up. He didn't want anything to remind Max of last week's debacle at Save-a-Bunch. He frowned disapprovingly; if his hair got much higher, his head was going to start falling over. Max was right—well, wasn't she always—he really did need a haircut, especially now that supplies of hair gel were becoming ridiculously expensive.

He grimaced, recalling news coverage of the massive explosion at the only hair gel factory in the northwestern United States. An accident the news reports had said, but he suspected it was the work of ultra right wing conservatives. Think about it, when was the last time there'd been a prominent Republican with spikes? It had been really amazing though; people, cars, buildings, whole neighborhoods slimed. In locations were the ultra hold formula had hit, it had taken weeks to unstick everything. He rubbed his eyes, remembering one particularly harrowing scene; he hoped they had finally been able to unglue that elderly gentleman from the toilet seat.

Anyway, without gel, his hair would loose its ability to defy gravity and soon he would look like Shep the sheepdog—unless, of course, he jammed a wet finger into an electrical socket every few minutes, and that seemed a little extreme. In the past, his cleaning lady had lopped off his locks when they reached a height of eleven centimeters or so, but she was gone, along with his millions. So here he sat, waiting for Max to accompany him to the cut-price salon she had discovered. 

She had Original Cindy cut her hair, and had suggested he do the same--but he felt somewhat uncomfortable with that idea. True, he'd always admired strong women, but OC was . . . well, kinda scary. Yes, she'd said he was "aiight" and, from the expression on her face at the time, he had deduced that was a good thing (and how did one spell that exactly?), but she had an air of danger about her nonetheless. Not that Max didn't, but she at least seemed to have a certain attachment to him that would probably restrain her from any slips with sharp instruments in the vicinity of his head. Speaking of slips—tonight there would be none. This evening was going to turn out just fine, even if it killed him.

A thud on the roof roused him from his reverie. Either Max had arrived, or his upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Moreno, was tap dancing again. Funny, this was the penthouse apartment--he hoped the old lady wasn't destitute and living in a tent on the roof. In all the years he'd lived here he'd never quite figured out the layout of this building, and the apartment itself wasn't much better. He knew there was a guest bedroom around here somewhere, but he'd seemed to have mislaid it.

He heard the skylight opening and grinned at his reflection in the mirror—Max. One final check--apart from the hair, he looked OK. He'd even worn the red slinky spandex shirt she seemed to like. True, it did show off his well-toned muscles, but having to have it surgically applied and removed was such a pain. 

Expertly, he wheeled out of the bedroom and into the hallway. There she was, molded into a sky-blue, long-sleeved, v-neck T and dark blue pants, looking extremely—blue. Yes, this evening he had a strategy—he would focus his thoughts on primary colors only—kind of like those mind control techniques Max had told him about. (Not for the first time, he appreciated Lesson 1: pay attention when Max speaks.) Errant thoughts had caused the trouble on his previous outings with her; tonight there would be none, and he would reestablish himself in her good books.

"So, what's the name of this hairdressing place?"

"Snips." He flinched involuntarily. All the more reason to be on his best behavior—women armed with scissors.

He followed as she led the way into the elevator. He loved riding with Max. Just the two of them in that tiny space, the smell of her scent, the glow of the recessed lighting in her hair . . .. This was not good . . . focus on the mission. "I hear Sherwin Williams is having a special on interior paint this week." OK, she looked confused now, but that had certainly been a conversation stopper and had given him time to regroup. His brilliant strategy was working. "Of course, it's on primary colors only." She was backing away from him—he was a genius.

***

Logan was still feeling pleased with himself as they pulled into the parking lot in front of Snips. Even that little detour they'd had to make to get gas had gone exceptionally well he thought, especially given the fact that he had never had to pump his own gas before, but now full service was just another luxury he couldn't afford. Max had definitely been checking out his upper body muscles as he'd made his transfers. At first, he'd thought it was his imagination, but her eyes were still glued to his biceps as he'd pumped the gas. He'd even flexed a couple of times as he was returning the nozzle to its holder just to be sure, and her eyes had definitely grown wider. Of course, that could have been because of the rapid approach of the 300-pound gentleman he had just sprayed with gasoline. But that had given him all the more incentive to do a stunningly fast and muscle stretching transfer back into the drivers seat. It was almost embarrassing, but he could have sworn she was sighing with pleasure as they'd screeched out of there. 

This evening was turning out just fine, everything was under control and the slight apprehension he had previously felt at setting wheel in a hairdressing salon for the first time was rapidly evaporating. In the Cale house there had always been a manservant or two who was adept with a scissors and his faithful cleaning lady had taken up where they'd left off. Except she hadn't been so faithful _had she?_ One bounced paycheck and she had bounced right out of there. His evil side hoped she had found employment with a Leona Helmsley or a Martha Stewart or, even worse, Margo—yes, she didn't realize how easy she'd had it all these years. And she really had had no expertise in doing hair. If he remembered correctly, her only job experience that had been in any way relevant had been plucking chickens. He was glad she was gone—good riddance to her.

Max was holding the door open for him, one hand resting on a perfectly curved hip, looking extremely . . ._blue_. She returned his grin as he wheeled passed her. Man . . . look at this place. Row upon row of mirrors, neatly arranged workstations, gorgeous shapely females . . . _focus_ . . . _mind control . . ._ and a dirty green décor. Maybe he should tell them about that sale at Sherwin Williams. 

An extremely buxom young lady was making her way toward them. She certainly was very . . . _red_. Max was watching him closely, tastefully blue, . . . she really was perfect. 

Thirty minutes, and a couple of pounds of hair, later he was almost done. He relaxed—nothing had gone wrong. It had been a perfect evening—well apart from being almost smothered to death by the amply endowed Miss Elmo in that reclining seat at the wash- basin.  _And_ she had kept bumping his cranial injury. Max would never do such a thing—but he could dream, couldn't he? . . . _focus . . . mind control . . . _gosh look at that comb over there, very _yellow_.

Max, on the other hand, had seemed more and more agitated as the evening progressed. She was leaning up against the workstation beside him, glaring. Dare he hope? Was she perhaps a bit jealous of his assigned beautician's ministrations? Maybe he should casually lean back a little and note her reaction. Yes, he could be risking permanent damage to his ears (was Max the only young female who wore a brassiere anymore), but he was prepared to make sacrifices in the name of truth, wasn't he? Wait a minute . . . where had they gone? 

He'd just have to sit here and wait. Maybe he could pass the time educating Max on Gloria Steinem and the feminist movement of the 1960s. It could be very liberating for both of them, and for himself also. _Oh God,_ he was loosing focus . . . gray, the floor tiles were gray . . . uh oh . . .that wasn't a primary color. Orange, the seats were orange . . . no, no . . . that was a secondary color. OK, his hair looked fine—time to get the hell out of there.

He whirled his chair around and froze—his beautician had returned and she was packing. Man . . . look at that thing, it made a 44 magnum look like a child's toy pistol. He always known it—women could read the male mind . . . it explained _everything._ Finally, he understood the fundamental mystery of the universe and he was going to die before he could enlighten the chromologically challenged half of mankind. Execution for thinking lecherous thoughts—he was surprise he had lived this long.

Now she was waving it around, she could hit Max by mistake. "DUCK!" 

He'd said duck, not freeze, hadn't he? What was wrong? Where were Max's lightening reflexes? He looked around desperately for help. NO! They were all armed, and aiming at the clientele's heads. _Uh oh_--suddenly, he suspected he had made a terrible error—hadn't Valerie used one of those things before she'd gotten that afro.     

Max was not looking pleased. _Think, think . . . regroup. _He sat back, folded his arms, and cocked an eyebrow, looking nonchalantly Sean Conneryish. "Duck, I'm cooking duck for dinner."

"He's been under a lot of stress lately." Max was giving the woman in red a huge tip and wheeling him out the door. _No wait . . . _maybe they had some hair gel for sale and he would never have to get a haircut again, _ever_. But he felt too drained to fight her now.

"Max, let's stroll through the city park on the way home." She looked pleased at his sudden calmness. Of course, that might change when they started chasing the ducks. He rubbed his head in confusion . . . ouch, that bump was still tender.

"Does that still hurt?

"Just a tit . . . I mean just a bit . . .."  _No_ . . . _no_ . . . where could he get a 44 magnum at this hour of the night . . . on second thoughts he needed an elephant gun . . . obliteration . . .it was the only solution to his torment . . . complete annihilation . . .

* * *

Again, thanks for all your suggestions. I've filed them away on my hard drive where, I'm afraid, they might be germinating . . . 


	4. Clean Up

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?  
**AN:** 1) Thanks so much for all the feedback. Trying humor was a little nerve wracking (for the world's worst joke teller) so I really appreciate all your comments.  
2) Thanks to Sister Moon for the cleaning idea.  
3) It has been pointed out by my beta (right before she fell asleep on paragraph nine) that I have been picking on one political party. In the interest of fairness, the next chapter, assuming I will survive this one, will poke fun solely at the Democratic Party (but come on you don't need me for that—they do so well all by themselves.)  
4) Standard warning re bad taste applies.   


This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 4: Clean Up

He had just read the complete works of Nietzsche and now he was starting on Kafka. He was really glad he had saved his grandmother's box of books for bedtime reading. They certainly had a very calming effect, in fact . . . he checked his wrist . . . no, he was still alive. But it would take more than German literature to cheer him up after the excursion to Snips last week. He sighed, knowing where this would lead . . . right to that case of Nora Roberts novels he had hidden under the kitchen sink and that, of course, would lead to hard liquor. 

He still couldn't face Max, so he had locked himself in the apartment and concentrated on bettering his mind. However, at this stage, he suspected that might require bleach and large amounts of sulfuric acid. 

To make matters worse, Max had arrived at his skylight last night, looking bedraggled and muttering something about leading a raid on the fish market, and could she take a hot shower to clean up. Of course, he'd let her and he had tried to concentrate on the dehumanization of the humanities in pre war German society as he had heard her rustling around in the bathroom. However, his imagination had gotten the better of him again, and he had spent thirty very uncomfortable minutes with his head in a sink full of cold water.

It was a miracle he hadn't drowned, although drowning may have been a mercy. She had left in a huff, yelling something about being attacked by mold in the shower stall and that she would be back the following evening with a couple of gallons of Lysol and rubber gloves and he had better be ready to help clean up this pig sty. God he loved her when she was angry, it just made him want to throw his arms around her and teach her everything he knew about . . . the complete works of Bertolt Brecht. 

There he went again. Why couldn't he control his thought process around this woman? He liked to think he was an enlightened male, able to treat members of the opposite sex with the dignity and respect they deserved. It was as if in her presence his reptilian brain was fed large amounts of Miracle Grow and any semblance of his usual suave and debonair self dissolved into a goopy porridge. 

Maybe he was trying for too much control. What if he loosened up a little—like James Bond perhaps? Suave, debonair, respectful _and _horny as hell—no, playful . . . yes, that was the correct word, playful as hell.  He was done with mind control. Tonight he would adopt a new strategy. He cocked an eyebrow and cracked his most charming smile, . . . the name was Cale, Logan Cale. And if that didn't work, he could always lock himself in the bathroom. He was on his home turf, what could possibly go wrong?

A noise on the roof brought him scooting over to the skylight to welcome the beautiful, enigmatic female about to drop in. **THUD**! _Good God,_ that industrial sized bucket of disinfectant had almost solved all his problems. He tried to resurrect his delish grin as Max followed the cleaning supplies into the apartment. 

"This place is a dump." Ah, she was trying to resist his charms already. Uh-oh, now she was peeling off her skin-tight leather jacket and revealing a skimpy piece of white cotton applied to her upper torso that she probably called a T-shirt: typical Bond female, trying to distract him while all the time planning his downfall. Now she was going to dazzle him with witty repartee and make him confess his innermost thoughts. "Can I borrow an old shirt to clean in?" Well, maybe the interrogation came later—he could always hope.

His grin became even wider. She could have her pick of his shirts, all of which were freshly cleaned and pressed, and hanging neatly in his closet. He, Cale . . . Logan Cale, had recently solved his laundry problem by hacking into Super Suds' mainframe and billing his weekly laundry to the National Republican Party. He felt this action was justified given his increased expenditure on hair gel, for which he held the right wing completely responsible. (See chapter 3, line 2086.) Maybe Super Suds had been a little suspicious at his request to drop his bundle of clothes on a park bench every Friday afternoon, but he felt sure nothing would be said—you had to say this for the Republicans, they were excellent tippers.

Max was reappearing in the hallway having walked into his bedroom . . .  _into his bedroom, _and slipped into one of his flannel shirts . . .  _into one of his shirts_. Oh God, bathroom or Bond—decide quickly. 

"Like a martini? Shaken, not stirred." She was looking at him funny—yet again.

"Quit messing around . . . and why do you keep grinning like that?" She was perfect—agent Guevarretsky—down to business, determined, direct, dangerous  . . . yeah, remember that Cale, one false move and she'll snap you like a twig. "Let's start in the kitchen." 

_Yes ma'am_. He resisted saluting and contented himself with obeying Lesson 1: always listen when Max speaks.

Actually, the kitchen wasn't that bad . . . as long as no one opened the dishwasher. Ooops . . . too late. Now she really did look dangerous . . . but cute, even under 28 days of dirty dishes. 

"Here, start cleaning the oven." She was remarkably controlled, but he did notice her hand shaking a little as she handed him a can of . . . what was that exactly? She was watching him. _Remember_ . . . Sean Connery. 

"Ah, oven cleaner. Why don't I: one, preheat to a temperature of 200 degrees; two, shake can vigorously; three, apply in even layer over all interior surfaces having first turned off oven." Man, he was glad he was wearing his glasses. Oven cleaner . . . you had to clean ovens? (He vaguely remembered now--self-cleaning ovens were outlawed years ago by the EPA and the National Society Against Nitpickers in Dark Angel Fanfiction.) Maybe that explained why half of the city's firefighters--and God bless them every one--had arrived at his apartment the last time he had preheated in preparation for baking his lemon, poppy seed muffins. OK heat, shake, apply . . . wooah, what was this stuff? He stopped abruptly.

"It's foam cleaner Logan. You know, like shaving foam."

_What_? She was looking at him funny--again. Well of course he knew what foam was--did she think he was a complete idiot? --But shaving . . .?

Half an hour later, he was getting bored with a capital B. All this polishing and wiping and scrubbing that Max insisted he engage in was doing nothing for his new Bond persona. _And_, he suspected, she was enjoying making him slave away while all she did was empty the refrigerator—not all of it into the waste disposal either. It was time to exert his manhood, take charge, and liven things up a little.

***

He was really starting to dislike agent Guevarretsky. Where did she get off telling him to get his butt out of her way and go clean the bathroom? OK, maybe he had been a little too enthusiastic in applying the liquid cleansing wax to the living room floor, but it made an excellent lubricated course for curling (his grandmother's favorite Olympic event, not to mention the Scottish national sport—Sean Connery would have approved.) And maybe he shouldn't have used his mother's best silver tea service, but they were his family heirlooms dammit. To be fair, he probably shouldn't have tried to impress her by following up his curling prowess with a demonstration of wheelchair tobogganing, but he seriously doubted her contention that the hole in the kitchen wall was too large to plaster over.

"Here's the ammonia, here's the bleach and be sure not to mix the two." She'd sounded like Joseph Stalin on a bad day. Did she think he was a complete idiot? Why would he use two cleaning agents when it would only take half the time to apply one? Well to hell with it, and to hell with Lesson 1, he was going to vacuum the bedroom instead. 

***

Logan smiled his best Bond smile as he ran the vacuum back and forth. This really was very restful, not to mention efficient. The appliance had picked up all the junk littering the floor with the exception of his dirty socks—just as well, the Republicans may choke on the cost of Super Suds extracting them for cleaning.

Only the walk-in storage closet left to do. What a mess! Obviously, his faithful cleaning lady hadn't cleaned this out in the last decade or so. Oh well, let the Dirt Devil do its damnedest. O_h no,_ it was eating his paint on black velvet picture of Elvis. He'd always meant to hang it, but it had clashed with the Hocking. 

_NO, _stop, stop . . .now it was attacking his father' s life sized portrait of George W. Bush, Jr.-- not that he had ever thought of hanging _that_. No, it reminded him too much of Bilbo Baggins, and that brought back memories of his grandmother's nightly readings of Lord of the Rings, during which she would portray all the major characters in full costume and make up. It really was very impressive, but scary nonetheless. Anyway, it had all come to an end during her famous reenactment of the Final Battle for Endor, after which his mother had confiscated all three volumes of Tolkien--at least until the walls had been repainted and grandma had promised she wouldn't use the flame thrower again.

Finally, he found the off switch and managed to extract the ex-president's left foot from the vacuum cleaner. He placed him back in the corner beside the oil on canvas of Janet Reno and his collection of Neil Sedaka CDs. You know, George Jr. hadn't been such a bad leader. In fact, he had done a great deal to relieve stress in the work place. Yes, the adoption of the 'Little Bush Work Ethic' had really taken a load off the workingman in America, but like so many good things, it had been taken to extremes by the next generation. He really felt the Bush twins--who had taken over the presidency in a particularly bloodthirsty coup back in 2010--had gone overboard in that regard, with the blonde one working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and the dark one Tuesdays and Thursdays—unless one of them had a hangover and then the other one subbed. Of course, the presidency shut down on weekends and public holidays and for the months of August and December. Logan sighed and wheeled to the bathroom guiltily. He shouldn't be slacking; he should be obeying Lesson 1.

***

He couldn't believe it, but he had seen it with his own two eyes as he had scooted into the hallway to pick up the bleach and ammonia. She had rearranged all his cooking utensils, or rather flung them onto the hooks on the kitchen wall in total disarray. It had taken him an entire evening (one she had spent horsing around chasing hoverdrones) to hang them all in alphabetical order. The woman was a sociopath, and a bossy one at that, and he was tired of being mister nice guy Bond. 

He barged into the bathroom, cleaning containers on his lap. Swinging open the door of the shower stall, he uncapped the bottles. What had she said? Don't mix the two?  Well he was tired of following Lesson 1. It had brought him nothing but public humiliation and physical discomfort. He'd just throw them both in and have done with the cleaning in double quick time. Uh-oh . . . why was there a gaseous cloud wafting through the air? Maybe he should lean in and turn on the shower before any wafted in Max's direction. Suddenly, he was feeling dizzy, even the ice cold water pummeling the back of he neck couldn't help him focus. Woops . . . the floor of the stall appeared to be approaching at a rapid speed . . . 

***

He was lying on something soft, but someone was beating him ferociously about the head. He opened his eyes and Max's face came slowly into focus. Her eyes were full of concern, her brow crinkled with worry, her ivory soft skin pale and wan—she really was perfect. If only she would stop tapping his cheeks gently with her delicate fists of steel. 

Wait a minute . . . they were in the bedroom, on his bed. He was flat on his back and she was straddling him. _My God_, _what had happened to him_? He had been in the shower stall inhaling toxic fumes and crashing into the fuax granite flooring at the speed of light. Max must have rushed in fearlessly and rescued him. Oh God, he had disobeyed her orders and look what had happened. They had ended up, soaking wet and shaking—he knew it, _he knew it_—he should have disregarded Lesson 1 weeks ago. 

"Can you sit up?" No, he didn't think he could, at least not while Max was in that delicious position. "Can you talk?" Well, maybe he could manage a whisper. She leaned forward to listen, the flannel shirt gapping open, revealing an extremely wet excuse for a T-shirt. She had very obviously taken to heart his discussion of feminist dress codes from last week. 

"Logan, Logan . . .can you move?" No, he definitely couldn't move, except maybe to encircle her waist with his right arm, while running the fingers of his left hand gently through her hair and pulling her in to him until her luscious lips were barely centimeters away from a rapturous kiss, their bodies touching intimately, her fingers caressing his hair, his hand moving down her back as she shifted to bring them closer together, her breasts heaving with longing against his drenched shirt, her ragged breathing the only sound in the entire universe . . . except for the fire alarm and the crash of axes through the front door of the apartment. 

_No, no . . . _don't go Max. His eyes watered up as the fumes from the oven cleaner hit. Turn off oven, turn off oven . . . he knew he'd forgotten to do something . . . and he should have know better than to use a product called Easy-Off. Well, he didn't care any more, let the whole building burn down, just get agent Guevarretsky back in here on the double.

NO, no . . . get all those manic firefighters out of here right now. Always at the call, ready to poke their axes into other people's business—he hated them, every one. "Hey you. Yeah you with the big boots, . . . go get me a gallon of martini, shaken, stirred, liquidized, laced with arsenic . . . 

* * *

 Oh, come on . . . stop throwing those rotten tomatoes. There's always the next chapter, assuming any of you will _ever _read TMNSW again . . ..


	5. Meo-ouch, Part I

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?  
**AN: **1) Re reviews chapter 4: Can see I'm not getting away with anything here. Yes, of course it's Hockney—Hocking is the guy who painted my house last year . . . yeah, that's it.  
2) Thanks to mapleleaf for the car wash idea. 

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 5: Meo-ouch, Part 1

Max sighed as she gazed out of her apartment window into the gathering night. She should have suspected something when she got that irresistible craving for fish the other evening, and then last night when she had almost given into the urge to rip off Logan's clothing and lick him all over. If the entire fire fighting force of the greater Seattle area hadn't shown up when they did . . . well it was best not to think about that. He had made it clear they were just friends, so she would just have to control herself. Yes, it was that time of the year again and her feline DNA was taking over. 

She had hoped to avoid the party she had agreed to accompany Logan to at Margo's tonight, but there was no way out of it. That afternoon she had asked Sketchy to call Logan and tell him she had to work late and couldn't make it. However, when she had returned from her deliveries five hours later, he was still on the phone with Logan's answering machine asking it how he really knew that he had reached the number he'd dialed? And what if he'd dialed the wrong number? And what if Logan was lying and he had reached an entirely different number altogether? . . .. 

To make matters worse, after she had beaten Sketchy viciously about the head with her backpack, she had caught a view of Normal in his undershirt and socks as he changed into a suit to watch Dan Rather Jr. read the six o'clock news and had to imprison herself in a locker. Of course, she had busted out of that in no time flat and had to imprison Normal instead. Fortunately, OC had taken charge of things at that stage and smacked her several times across the face, before yelling for every male in the place to run for his life. 

She shifted uneasily as she waited for the Aztec to pull up in the street below. The party was a black tie affair, and the only suitable thing she had found to wear was a red cocktail dress that Kendra had stored in a matchbox in the back of the closet and had forgotten to take with her when she moved out. She hoped Logan wouldn't think it was too skimpy. Fortunately, it matched the stilettos he had given her on the fifteenth anniversary of Janet Reno's successful feminist overthrow of the papacy, saying that they had once belonged to J. Edgar Hoover and were valuable historical artifacts. She still didn't understand why he insisted she wear them every time he came over—but that was Logan, always obsessing about American cultural heritage. 

It was probably just as well it had been too late to cancel on Logan. He had seemed preoccupied and . . . well, a little goofy lately—probably too much stress. It wouldn't be right to let him go to Margo's alone, and she knew how important this event was to him. With Cale Industries in a shambles, this party was intended to butter up the government types who were in charge of the massive reorganization. Many senior and mid-level executives, who Logan was sure knew nothing of the corruption and illegal goings on of Jonas and his cronies, were being assigned to positions in remote facilities in the artic circle. Still more unfortunate individuals were being sent to Muncie, Indiana. Logan wanted to do whatever he could to protect the innocent from such a fate.

Anyway, she wanted to keep an eye on him--what if Daphne was there. True, she and OC seemed to have a thing going, but she still didn't trust the woman. Well, she had ways of dealing with Daphne. Yes, in her days in the basement torture chambers of Manticore she had picked up a few useful tips. 

She smiled sweetly, licked her lips, and patted down the hairs on the back of her neck as she spotted Logan waving from a parking space below. 

***

Logan relaxed as they pulled into the car wash, his allocated wash was just a couple of minutes from now—perfect timing. He felt bad having to swing by here on the way to the party, but the last time he had parked at Margo's with a dirt encrusted vehicle she'd had it towed and it had taken the proceeds from six of her solid silver candlesticks to get it back. Well he wasn't going to stuff any candlesticks down his pants tonight, not with Max accompanying him. 

His building super had always taken care of car related matters before, but he had refused to accept pickled olives in lieu of tips, and so Logan was on his own. Even with Seattle's average annual rainfall of 1042 inches, it was amazing how dirt clung to vehicles. Of course, water rationing had been in effect for the last several years since a disgruntled city employee had removed all the plugs from the reservoirs and the correct paper work to requisition new ones still hadn't been completed in full. 

He had been lucky to get allocated a time at all, in fact, if he hadn't agreed to help that nice older lady in the water rationing department lift those heavy boxes of files from her desk to her bookshelves he might not have. It was reassuring to know that little acts of kindness really could pay off sometimes. _And_ she had been so appreciative, insisting he take off his shirt lest it get dirty and even toweling the sweat off his upper torso when he was done. Although, he really didn't understand why she had changed her mind and insisted he return all the boxes back to their original position. She _had_ looked a tad flushed and was definitely breathless when she made that request though, so maybe she was unwell and feeling confused.

Logan glanced over at Max who was smiling quietly and waiting patiently—he hoped she wasn't sick. He'd had a long talk with himself the previous night and decided to reconcile himself to the fact that he and Max were in a quid pro quo relationship, and she considered him a business partner, no more. Then he had downed a quart of scotch and resisted the urge to lock himself in the bathroom and mix up all the toxic cleaning fluids he could lay his hands on. 

He squirmed as he tried to recall the events of last night, but he was hazy on what had happened after the ammonia and bleach mixture had gone to his head. He did remember the firemen confiscating his oven and that Max was gone. Still, nothing too bad could have happened or Max would have called and cancelled on him this evening. Of course, some moron had tied up his answering machine for five hours that afternoon, but she was here next to him and very obviously enjoying his company. She looked so wonderful tonight, positively glowing—almost radioactive. Careful . . . _remember,_ business partners . . . toxic chemicals . . .. Time to have a talk with her, clear the air, and set his mind at ease.

***

They were just friends . . . friends who had a business relationship . . . a relationship she could muck up irrevocably by letting her thoughts continue in their present direction. But Logan was looking so appetizing tonight, in his black suit and tie . . . shame he had to wear a shirt. She had to focus, focus quickly, before her primal instincts overwhelmed her. What was he saying? It was difficult to hear him over the sound of the water and foam spraying, and the rotating brushes beating against the doors of the SUV.

"You know how much I value your friendship and  . . .." Oh God, he was taking off his sexy little glasses and rubbing his eyes. "And our working relationship is a great asset . . .." Now he was scratching the back of his neck in that self-deprecating, incredibly sensual way of his. "Such good . . . friends . . .." He was loosening his tie with one hand and wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow with the other. She could smell his scent, masculine and arousing; sense the pent up power of his well developed muscles; almost feel the graze of his unshaven face against her flushed and agonizingly sensitive skin. _Concentrate_, concentrate . . . she was conditioned to resist the most heinous torture techniques know to man . . . she could resist him surely. Just focus on whatever he was babbling on about.

What? Yes, yes . . . friends, they were friends . . . But friends didn't imagine friends reclining naked across the hood of an Aztec, swathed in lather and ready to be taken advantage of, did they? 

"Pop the hatch." 

"What?"

"Pop the goddamn hatch."

"Max! Max!" She could hear him calling her name as she ran screaming from the vehicle and through the automated bumper buffers into the night.

* * *

Will they make it to Margo's party? Will Daphne survive? Will Logan engage in any petty thievery? Will Max engage in any immoral behavior? Will Logan survive?

Well I, for one, have no idea. You don't think any prewriting is actually involved here, do you? Hadn't intended this to ramble . . . er, evolve into two chapters. Hope Max and Logan can find enough to get up to to sustain the word count . . .


	6. Meo-ouch, Part 2

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?****  
**AN: **I am currently putting together a promotional video (text-only) for Dark Angel Virtual Season 3, premiering at www.pvtonline.com on September 10, 2002. I hope to air this at the start of next week's chapter, so stayed tuned.****  
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 6: Meo-ouch, Part 2****

Logan rolled down the passenger side window and gasped. There she was sitting on the curb by the gas station, shivering and looking small and forlorn. Her skimpy little dress was wet and looked like it had shrunk two sizes. Logan sighed empathetically—now it fit perfectly.

"Max. What's wrong?"

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice, eyes flashing and hair bristling. Bristling? Now that was strange, he'd never seen her bristle before. 

"Wrong? Nothing . . .well, it's just . . .." She stood and began to stalk back and forth across the pavement. "Logan, I owe you an explanation. See, I go through these phases."

"Phases?" 

"Because of my feline DNA. Oh God, this is something I so don't want to talk about. You know, cats? Cycles? Well, three times a year my feline instincts overwhelm me and . . ."

"Cycles? What do you mean . . . cycles? Overwhelming feline instincts and cycles . . .? Oh my God! How could I have been so stupid?" He sank his head in his hands. He was such a fool, an unfeeling fool at that. Women were right, men were dense and insensitive beasts. All her cat-like feelings were amplified and he had put her in an impossible situation—an intolerable situation for any feline.

"Of course, you're scared of water."

"_What_?" 

"And I took you through the god dam car wash."

"NO, NO." She stopped abruptly and gazed at him, her eyes full of warmth and appreciation for his understanding and superior deductive reasoning powers. "YES, YES. Three times a year I am deathly afraid of water."   

***

Logan smiled as they pulled up in front of the mansion. Max had graciously accepted his apologies. In fact, as he had explained the arbitrary towing practices enforced at the Cale residence, he could feel her eyes bore into him with acceptance and hear her little mews of sympathy. He would have liked to gaze back at his perfect angel but he couldn't see that far, the inside of the Aztec being enveloped in a fog as dense as that over lake Okeechobee on a particularly humid subtropical evening. Must have been Max's final dash through the car wash as the drying cycle was in progress. He bet that little dress was becoming littler with every molecule of water evaporating from it's slinky surface. Yes, he was lucky to have such an understanding friend as Max.

Hey . . . look at this. Margo had valet parking this evening. She obviously was going all out for the party. You really had to admire her sense of dedication to the company. She had always entertained tirelessly on it's behalf, and this last ditch attempt to rescue the shreds of Cale industries from the ruthless reorganization being imposed upon it was a testament to her drive and dedication. Logan sighed as he reflected on the importance of family and tradition and the selfless efforts and countless sacrifices—for the most part unappreciated, even by himself-- his aunt had made over the years. Shame she was such a bitch.

He handed the parking attendant his keys. "Dude, are those bullet holes?" The young man's eyes widened as he surveyed the side of the Aztec. Logan frantically tried to think of an innocent explanation: an attack by giant hornets with humongous stingers? a shower of tiny meteorites traveling at incredible speed?

"Yeah, they're bullet holes all right." What was Max saying? "See this intense concentration right here?" She waited until the youth, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, had his face practically pressed up against the evidence. "That's where the last valet parking attendant was standing when he allowed this car to be towed." The kid paled perceptibly. "Capiche?" The kid nodded—emphatically.

That really wasn't very nice of Max; effective, but definitely not nice. Must be those feline instincts taking over again, bringing out that species' aggressive and territorial tendencies. How fascinating. It would be interesting to see what other effects would manifest themselves as the evening progressed.

Logan turned toward the house, noting that Margo had finally installed a ramp up the center of the dozen or so steps leading to the impressive entrance of the neo-gothic building. He supposed that was a good thing, but it irked him to have Max's attention drawn to his disability. Still, what was it that Jonas always said? If life gives you a lemon, make a bloody Mary? You know, if that ramp had been positioned a little further to the left so the large ornate fish-pond in the center of the circular curve of the driveway didn't impede the run up to it . . . yes, with sufficient momentum he bet he could catch some air on top.

Of late, he had become very interested, if not obsessed, with Extreme sports--specifically those involving wheels. He was sure he could adapt some skateboarding moves for the chair. Maybe it was immature, but he wanted to impress Max: to still be a guy able to show off his physical prowess to a beautiful, desirable woman. He looked over as Max stalked beside him up to the steps. Maybe fear of water and territoriality weren't the only things taking hold. Cats greatly admired and respected agility, didn't they? Yes, a display of fearless skill and audacity would probably very much impress her right now.

If only he had his grandmother's old eighteen-foot drop in ramp from her boarding days to use in conjunction with this one; man, he could fly right through the front door and not touch dirt until the dining room. But he was getting ahead of himself. One day he would launch himself through the air, effortlessly performing a kick flip frontside, boardside with a double ally to boot, but that would require a lot of practice and a thorough inspection of his health insurance entitlements. He put it on his mental list of things to look into tomorrow.

For now, he would have to be content with just the one ramp. "Hey Max, check this out." He grinned his best boyish grin as he turned his back on the entrance to the house and wheeled toward the pond. A graceful one eighty, a second spent carefully aligning the chair with the ramp up ahead and . . . he was off. He glimpsed Max watching as his muscular arms pumped furiously, propelling him forward at a stunning rate. 

Up the ramp he flew and . . . yes, _yes . . ._ at least a foot of air at the top. He laughed in triumph, how could she fail to be impressed by that? OK, the landing was a bit rough, but that senior executive currently under his wheels was one scheduled for reassignment to Muncie, so he would probably welcome and extended hospital stay instead. "Sorry about that sir, lost control a tad on the landing. Narly take off though."

***

Max was being . . . well, catty would be a good word for it. Cheek of her, saying he had embarrassed them both. He wasn't the one who had chased Margo's pouch up the stairs, or the one who had snuck into the kitchen and gobbled up the Siamese's Fancy Feast gourmet canned cat food. Still, he should really be making allowances for her in her present condition. If only he didn't feel that she was being petty, and trying to avoid all contact between them. Well he thought he could cure that. Yes, cats were well known for their jealous streak and at the wedding she had seemed a little resentful of the attention he had paid to his ex-fiancé.

"Hi Daphne. You're looking especially gorgeous tonight." He frantically scanned the room—yes, Max had them in her sights as she silently stalked a waiter carrying a tray of salmon pâté canapés. He caught hold of Daphne's hand and smiled his most charming smile. He could almost hear the hiss across the width of the elegant banquet room and above the sound of the string quartet playing melodically in the background.

"Hi Daphne." Woah . . . that was quick. Max was beside them, waiter safely in tow. Although, if she didn't loosen her grip on his bow tie immediately she would be picking those sandwiches up off the floor. 

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Max had dropped the waiter and taken up position behind the wheelchair. Her delicate hands rested on his upper arms, her nails gently embedding themselves in his flesh. She was smiling sweetly at Daphne—oh God. 

"Could I have a word with you?" Max's voice was sweet and pleasant. Run Daphne, run. Before he could maneuver around the body on the floor—damn waiters, always getting in the way—Max had lead the innocent and unsuspecting woman into the hallway. 

Damn, Margo was starting on her speech—he could only catch a couple of words of their conversation over the horrible din as he skulked up to them. "OC usually did it . . . temporary neurological condition . . . very grateful . . . OC would explain later . . .." Daphne was nodding with a sympathetic, if confused expression on her face. It was OK—Max wasn't going to scratch her eyes out and tear her to shreds. His shoulders slumped. Somewhere in the depths of his deluded mind he'd really hoped he meant more to her than that—he was such a fool. Friends, they were just friends.

They traipsed back into the party to hear Margo expound the virtues and strengths of Cale Industries. Max was looking extremely distracted, well who could blame her—Margo was such a bore. He placed a reassuring hand on her arm and felt her bristle under his touch. He was beginning to like the bristling thing. Suddenly, she turned toward him, eyes flashing, and started to mess with his tie. Oh, he must have forgotten to tighten it back up after their conversation in the car wash. He really would have thought nothing of her action except for the fact that she had first stuck her fingers in his mouth and her tongue in his ear.

Smack! What the . . .. Daphne had just slapped her across the face. However, Max hadn't seemed to notice. She must be having trouble with the tie because now she was straddling the chair, a knee on either side of his thighs and a look of intense concentration on her face. SMACK! Woaah . . . that left hook Daphne had just landed had got her attention alright. 

"Thanks." Max smiled pleasantly.

"You're welcome." Daphne smiled back.

OK, something strange was going on. Maybe the gin punch was stronger than it tasted—Margo probably hadn't watered it down this evening. He tried to listen to his aunt's impassioned speech, but it was difficult to focus with Max trying to fix his tie and all the slapping and politeness taking place.

"Logan, I have to leave." What? It was hard to hear Max over the noise of Margo belting out "Memories." The string quartet was having a hell of a time trying to stay in her keys. "You stay. I've got to take care of something at work."

"At this hour of the night?"

"Yeah, I . . . I . . . have to . . . Oh God, I really do have to. I mistakenly left Normal in my locker. He might be running out of air by now . . .." Slowly she untangled her fingers from his tie and gave him a regretful parting look. No, he couldn't let her leave like this. Something was bothering her and, to be honest, after their knee on thigh contact he was feeling pretty bothered himself.

He managed to catch up with her as she made her way hastily down the hallway. "Max, stop." She turned and he rounded on her, blocking her path to the front door.

"No Logan, stay away—for your own good . . . for the good of our friendship."

Friendship be damned. He was going to find out what was the matter, even if it killed him. He grabbed her arm. Uh, oh . . . she was bristling again.

"No, no . . . you don't understand. Stay back . . . you have to . . .." With that she placed a hand on either wheel of the chair and thrust it away from her. Logan felt a slight apprehension building as chair barreled backward along the hallway toward the entrance. Oh God, if the door wasn't opened at his present velocity he would soon be bonded to it at a molecular level. He felt a gush of air as he shot through the entrance into the night. Thank heavens, he was  . . . safe? It certainly didn't feel that way as he gazed up into the starry sky, his chair at a 45 degree angle as it dove down the ramp. There was nothing he could do; his fingers would surely be ripped off if he tried to interfere with the momentum of the wheels. Wait . . . something was impeding his rapid progress down the driveway.

No, he was wrong—only the chair was impeded—he himself was flying over the decorative wall of the fish-pond. _And_ he was catching some massive air—at least six foot, grandma would have been so proud. He closed his eyes as he waited for the SPLASH that would mark the completion of his arc of trajectory. SMACK! What the hell? Daphne wasn't out here was she? This was no time to be engaging in perverted pastimes.

Suddenly enlightenment struck—though not nearly as hard as the three-inch layer of ice covering the fishpond. Ice, of course . . . well at least that would prevent him from being immersed in the frigid water. CRACK! Wrong again. He sighed as he sank into the glacial depths, trying to avoid inhaling any rudely awakened fishes  . . . sometimes life just sucked.

***

Max ran desperately after Logan and the chair. She was sorry, so sorry . . .she just hadn't realized her own strength. By the time she reached the steps he was already flailing around in the fish pond. As she jumped in, she could see he was conscious—thank God. "No Max. Don't go near the water . . . don't go near the water . . .."

"Ssh, ssh. Don't try and talk." Gently she lugged him onto dry land. "We've got to get you into the house and warmed up."

"N n n n no. N n n n not going to see Margo l l l l like this. H h h h h home . . .."

With the assistance of a very cooperative parking attendant, she managed to get him into the Aztec. He was rapidly turning a purplish shade of blue. Frantically she gunned the engine and fidgeted with the heater. Oh no, she'd forgotten the heater was shot—literally. She put her foot down heavy on the accelerator. There was nothing for it but to get him home and into a hot shower. Whatever it took she would save him . . .yes, save him from anything . . .except maybe herself. She licked her lips and patted down the hairs on the back of her neck as they roared down the driveway into the night.

* * *

Wow, I've really gone over my targeted word count and, as don't like to bother my readers with overly long chapters, I will break here. I realize that Meo-ouch still hasn't reached a satisfactory climax, but hopefully that will be taken care of in the next installment. 


	7. Meo-ooooohh

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?****  
**AN:** Please note the new rating, and my standard warning for bad taste comes with a capital "B" and a lower case "t." Well, here goes nothin' . . . except my entire literary career.  
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 7: Meo-ooooohh****

Max barged into the apartment, dragging the wheelchair behind her. She turned to see how Logan was fairing, her heart filled with dread that hypothermia may have set in and permanent damage already been done. She froze and stared at the chair in disbelief—where was he? 

Mentally she retraced her steps. She remembered slamming the Aztec into its allotted space in the underground parking garage of Fogle Towers. As she had peeled Logan off the dashboard, she'd gasped at the coldness of his skin and the whiteness of his features. In fact, during the drive across town, she had noted his skin becoming progressively paler with every passing sector checkpoint she had demolished. 

Dashing around to the passenger side, she had the chair set up before the remains of the last security barrier had toppled off the hood. The whump that echoed around the deserted concrete enclosure as she carefully hurled his limp body into the wheelchair reflected the emptiness and desperation gathering in her breast.

He had definitely still been with her when she'd reached the elevators. Yes, she distinctly remembered him choking on the whirlwind of dust and litter that her mad dash across the concrete cavern had stirred up. The damn elevator had taken forever to make it down to the basement, so she had scaled the stairway to the penthouse floor yanking the wheelchair in her wake, eyes upward as she assessed the terrain ahead; the bumpty-bump-bump-bump of wheels against steps, eclipsed only by the thudding of her own frantic heartbeats. 

Wait a minute . . . one of those bumps had sounded louder than the others. Yes . . . about three floors down or so . . ..

***

Max sighed with relief. Logan was safely in her care again, and the steam rising from the shower was warming the bathroom nicely. He seemed a little more alert, the moaning sound he had emitted as she'd scraped him off the twenty-third floor landing being replaced by the occasional "Where am I?" and "I'll confess, I'll confess . . .."

However, he was still ice cold and shivering. She'd better help him into the shower before he became clinically hypothermic. She took a deep breath to calm herself and silently gave thanks for the artic training Lydecker had made the X-5s endure every August in Muncie. The first and most important rule in dealing with members of the human species suffering from low body temperature was to act in a composed, orderly and professional fashion. 

She pushed the chair back against the vanity unit and locked the brakes. Carefully she slid one arm out of his jacket, all the time checking for muscle tone and definition. Leaning forward, in order to liberate the other equally pumped and solid limb, she felt his breath against her cleavage—yes, his respiration was definitely more pronounced, a good sign. She relaxed somewhat, and began to loosen his tie with her teeth. 

Feeling the heat beginning to radiate off his body, she almost whimpered with relief . . . he was going to be OK . . . maybe even better than OK—amazing, incredible, spectacular . . .. No, wait—composed and orderly remember. Efficiently, she undid the knot of the tie with her tongue, ripping it off and spitting it across the room in one fluid motion. 

His shirt was still soaking. She could feel droplets of water spill through her fingers as she clutched the collar. Best get it off as quickly as possible. Ooops . . . she hadn't really meant to rip it in two. Logan was moaning now. This was no time to worry about modesty, better get him out of the rest of those wet clothes before he became totally incapacitated. 

She reached for his belt, inadvertently licking her way down his neck, over the hairs of his chest, outlining his trapezium and pectoral muscles with the tip of her tongue, and noting that his heart beat was strong and regular—although somewhat rapid. Respiratory, pulmonary, muscular systems all seemed fine—_especially_ the muscular—still his expression was glazed and he seemed incapable of motion, she'd better not take any chances by stopping now.

Carefully, she removed his shoes and socks, recalling the last time she had looked at his feet. They had been sitting on the sofa, his bare feet resting on her lap as he had gone on about stem cells and stupid doctors. She had tried to look cool and collected and make intelligent remarks, when all the time she had wanted to take each elegant elongated toe in her mouth and suck on it until it resembled a luscious prune. Then she would have worked her way up the arch of each foot to his perfectly shaped ankles. Stop it, stop it, this was no time for idle fantasies . . .. Logan needed her help and it was her humanitarian duty to do what had to be done. She supposed the pants should go next.

"Max . . . Max." Oh no, he sounded dazed and disorientated—she'd better pick up the pace. Frantically she grabbed for his pants, her lightening reflexes compelling her to duck as the button popped and ricocheted around the bathroom. "Ouch." She hoped that imprint on his forehead would fade eventually; maybe she should try to lick it away. But, first things first.

"Put your hands on my shoulders and lift." Good, he was alert enough to follow simple instructions. In one gracefully motion she ripped off his pants. Damn, well at least the jacket had come off in one piece. _And_ she really liked a well-built guy in suit jacket . . . maybe he would put it on for her after his shower. Oh God, she clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle an involuntary roar. Stop, stop and help poor Logan. She banished the vision from her mind and looked at stricken man before her.

Once he stopped panting and looking at her with that glazed expression, he would probably be embarrassed by the procedures she had had to follow, medically necessary though they had been. No, there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about--she surveyed her handy work--not_ a thing_. She smiled reassuringly at him and licked her lips. Humans had such interesting anatomy, but were psychologically so much more complicated than felines. Well that was their problem, she was a lioness, a propagator of the pride, she would do whatever was necessary . . ..

Meeeeeooooooww. Where had that come from? Concentrate, concentrate on…on …on that chiseled chest, those pumped up powerful arms, the washboard abs, the elegant feet, …yes, chisels, pumps, prunes, washboards . . . anything, anything but those black silk boxers. 

He was trying to say something. She leaned in toward him, but how was she going to understand him while he had one of the bitsy straps of her dress in his mouth? Oh . . . OOH good, he was obviously feeling much better. His hands were around her waist pulling her to him, until she was straddling him in the chair.  He paused and looked up at her, one strap between his perfect teeth, the other wrapped around a sizzlingly cold finger, an eyebrow raised questioningly. He was such a gentleman—well, she would have to put an end to that. Wooooaaah. Well, maybe he wasn't such a gentleman after all, although knowing Logan he would insist on reimbursing Kendra for the dress—or what was left of it. 

She shivered as his fingers explored her skin, noting his appreciative ogling of her new strapless bra. She was glad she had followed her usual policy of wearing clean underwear when in Logan's company. You never knew when you might get into an accident. 

Max gasped as she felt his strong arms draw her closer to him, until they enveloped her in a passionate embrace. His hypothermic fingers were fumbling with an uncooperative clasp . . . _woooahhh_, yet again . . . she always knew Logan was a resourceful man, but she had never imagined his teeth were that strong. She leaned down to him grinning, her hands caressing his cheeks and sliding around his neck, reveling in the soft touch of his lips, the gentle play of his tongue, the excruciating scraping of his unshaven face—later she hoped they would kiss a little.

She tried to gather her senses, were they putting their friendship in jeopardy? She didn't was to loose the respect of this man she cherished and was just getting to know. Riiipppp. "LOGAN!" She never would have thought he would have such blatant disregard for articles of clothing—now she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to wear home—obviously she didn't know him well enough. Well, she would have to remedy that. 

"Lift . . . no, not me. I meant . . . " Suddenly, whatever she meant was a tiny blip of incoherence rushing to the end of the known universe at the speed of light. The man was an animal and . . .  "ohoohooohooooh" . . . an inventive one at that. But, it was time for her to take matters in hand. 

Yes, _that_ had got his attention. Now a little maneuvering—she wanted those boxers in one piece, for now anyway. She surveyed the scene before her . . . _oh my_, it was going to be a long night. 

Slowly, she untangled herself from the mess of limbs, hands, fingers, teeth and whatever else he was using to torment her. She stood before him, studying her prize. There he sat, standing tall and erect. "Don't move a thing." She stared triumphantly at the leader of the pride. "Not a thing." 

Her expression became suddenly serious. She had dwelt on thoughts of this for many a long night—and morning, and afternoon, and frequently during lunch, sometimes during her afternoon coffee break and . . .. Focus woman focus--this had to be perfect, just perfect. Leaning forward, she released the brakes and put a hand on either side of the chair, pushing it back against the bathroom wall. "Logan!!" He was just like a kid, had to put everything in his mouth—there would be time for that later. 

Gently, she shoved his head back with one hand, the other locking the brakes. She raised an eyebrow suggestively as she gathered her supplies with the discipline and precision of trained soldier: loofah, nail brush, soap, hair brush, baby oil, shaving cream (well, of course), tooth brush . . . that should just about do it, except for . . . shampoo, conditioner, emery boards, soap-on-a-rope (no, forget that—the rope wasn't nearly long enough), hair gel, body lotion, extra-strength dental floss, more tooth brushes . . . that would suffice . . . for now. She could get additional supplies from the kitchen later—much, much later. Reaching behind her she swung the bathroom door shut.

And so, as a curtain of steam envelopes our two heroes we contemplate the meaning of . . . "oooooOOhhhHHH . . . aaaaAAAhhHHH . . . mmmooOOAAaaannn . . ." for crying out loud keep it down in there—well, maybe it's too late for that . . . for Logan anyway. Ahem, even in this broken world there is room for what we all, deep in the heart of our humanity seek . . . "NNOOOO . . . YEEEEEEEESSSSSSS . . ." look, I'm coming in there with a bucket of iced water if you don't shut up . . .. In this broken world there is still the possibility for . . . "meeeeooooooooowwWWW . . ." perfection, dammit . . .perfection. Sometimes things are just perfect . . . and . . . "ooowwwWOW,WOWOW. . ." where's the damn ice tray . . ..

Bloody actors. Never working with them again. You think Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts have to put up with this crap . . .. 

* * *

Gee, I hope that wasn't too mushy and romantic. I know it brought at tear to _my_ eye. I think your reviews will determine if there will be a chapter 8, or if I will change my IP address, shut down my hotmail account, erase my hard drive and move to Muncie. 


	8. Aftermath

Check out www.darkangelvirtuality.com for information on Dark Angel Virtual Season 3 premiering on September 10, 2002.   
**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?****  
**AN: **1) Thanks so much for the feedback on chapter 7, especially the touching comments regarding my sanity. ****  
2) I did have the most amazing OC and Herbal dialog in this chapter, but as my beta couldn't understand a word of it I had to translate it into the pathetic attempt you read below.   
3) I freely admit to plagiarizing almost an entire scene from BBWW, but I have added a little dialog of my own and some additional action, which I feel may give the scene more meaning . . ..   
4) The pigeons are the intellectual property of Fin Tuscany (as per "The Stronghold").  
  
This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 8: Aftermath

Bling kicked the door closed behind him, keys dangling from his mouth and balancing a bag of groceries in either hand. "Oh my God!" Keys and groceries crashed to the floor as he took in the scene of destruction around him. It had finally happened; Eyes Only had been discovered, and the bad guys had come calling. 

Quickly he picked his way through the debris to Logan's work area and offered a silent prayer when he found the gun and ammunition in the desk drawer. It was possible the perpetrators were still here, lurking amid the ruins of the apartment. He loaded the weapon and began the grim search for his friend and ex-employer, his heart filled with dread as to what he may find.

Methodically he swept the rooms, creeping around upturned furniture, avoiding scattered shards of glass and china, almost loosing his balance in the enormous pool of strawberry/kiwi Jell-O smeared across the kitchen floor. Only the bedroom remained. He braced for whatever horror might await him and swung around the doorframe, gun at the ready.

"Logan! Speak to me." His friend's body lay in a tangle of sheets under the upturned mattress on the floor. Bling flung the mattress off the inert form and gasped in shock. "Logan, my God, what did they do to you?" Every inch of his exposed body was red and puckered, as if some giant octopus had wrapped its tentacles around him and applied all its suckers at once. There was a hideous circular wound in the center of his forehead and a mass of scratches ran down the length of his back. The bastards, the cowardly bastards—to have attacked a disabled man so viciously and left him here to die alone.

"Hey Bling." He staggered back in amazement. Logan was alive and conscious and . . . grinning. Clearly, he was in shock. Bling placed one hand on his arm, the other on his back, and gently tried to assist him to a sitting position. "ARRGGGHHHH."

Quickly, he returned his friend to the floor. "OK, where does it hurt?" The fear in his eyes belied the calm and even tone of his voice.

Logan paused, obviously assessing the extent of his injuries. "Everywhere." He grinned even more. Bling tried to maintain his stoic exterior, his mind frantically assessing the likelihood of brain damage. "Yeap, my forehead, shoulders, arms, ears . . . all the way down to my toes."  Bling sighed. He'd better get Sam Carr to call in a    specialist as soon as possible.

"Who did this?" At least he could try to avenge Eyes Only's tragic end.

"What do you mean?"

"This."  Bling motioned to his friend's battered body and to the devastation surrounding them.

"Oh that. Well . . . I . . . I was working out."

"What?"

"Guess I got a little carried away."

"What? You and the Green Bay Packers?"

"No, Just me . . . "--Bling looked stern and disbelieving--" . . . and Max."

Bling's expression turned from incredulous . . . to blank . . . to inscrutable. He paused a minute to assimilate the information. "You'd better get your ass up off the floor. You've got a lot of cleaning up to do." He smiled to himself as he left the room. Later he would offer Logan a massage and torture some of the details out of him, except for the Jell-O, he really didn't think he wanted to know about the Jell-O.

***

Max had left early, looking like her old self again and yelling something about forgetting to let Normal out of her locker. Logan hoped they could deal maturely with the aftermath of this, and not let things get weird between them. He had wanted to get up and see her off, but twelve times in an eight hour period was just too much to ask.

He lay on the floor, reflecting on the activities of last night. They had moved from the chair to the shower—eventually. Yes, he was so proud that she had finally overcome her cyclical fear of water. In fact, they'd used up the entire building's supply of hot water and had had to transfer to the bathroom floor. At that stage, they'd tried to make it to the bed, but had somehow fallen into a closet along the way, where Max had discovered the vacuum cleaner and its attachments. He shivered at the recollection.

She had then decided she was hungry so they'd rolled to the kitchen, stopping twice in the hallway along the way.  While he fixed sandwiches, she had run out to the 24-hour convenience store, saying she had a sudden craving for Jell-O. He'd been polite and not mentioned his aversion to the stuff when she had return 2.5 minutes later with a couple of dozen four packs of the ready to eat variety. However, now he could see its appeal; his mistake had been trying to eat if off a spoon all these years. 

Of course, then they'd had to shower again but, as only half of the building's 100,000-gallon tank had reheated, they couldn't linger too long.  On the way to bed, the computer had beeped, signaling an incoming message. Never one to put pleasure before work, he had gone to check it out. However, he had barely had time to open an email before she had snuck up on him and savagely attacked him from behind.  Logan frowned at the thought that they might have erased the entire Informant Net—but it had been a very educational experience; he'd had no idea keyboards could be put to such uses.

In due course, they had reached the relative safety and comfort of the couch—but not for long. A particularly enthusiastic demonstration of ashtanga yoga on Max's part had sent them tumbling across the floor to the dining room table where--he smiled with pride--he had taught her a thing or two. He had to admit, she'd been an excellent student, insisting they practice on both kitchen tables on the way to the sink for a glass of water. There she had demonstrated that her fear of water was indeed conquered, and finally they had dragged themselves to bed. However, the sight of Max reclining naked on his sheets had been too much for him and they had tangled one more time before collapsing onto the floor where he now lay. It would be a miracle if he could ever get up again.

***

Jampony was a relaxed, almost happy place that morning. No one had any idea as to Normal's whereabouts, and the annoying, high-pitched bip-bip-bip coming from the vicinity of Max's locker apparently hadn't been noticed by any of the fifty or so employees lolling about the place. 

"Where be Normal?" Herbal, surrounded by a dense cloud of smoke, was looking laid back and very herbal. 

Sketchy turned toward him, inhaling appreciatively. "Missing . . . and you hear that bipping. Cindy says it's the new musak system Normal had installed. We're going to have to listen to that all the time. As soon as the boss gets back here, I'm lodging a formal complaint. Or maybe Max could 'fix it' first." 

"Where be Max?"

Original Cindy breezed past looking distracted and impatient. "Just called. She's on her way in. Had to go home and change before coming to work." She almost cringed, slamming her mouth shut.

Sketchy suddenly came to life and bounded out in front of her. "Out all night? Doin' what? With who? For how long? In what  . . .

"Shut up fool. You say I let anythin' slip, they'll be pickin' your body parts up for a three mile radius. If they've microscopes powerful enough to find them, that is." She swaggered toward the entrance, attempting to look nonchalant.

Sketchy went back to inhaling and pouting. He wished Max were here to distract OC from beating up on those unable to defend themselves. When OC was on the rampage even Normal's presence was reassuring. He sighed. With both of them missing he was easy pickings . . . both of them missing? He screwed up his face in concentration. Both not here at the same time. Max out all night. Normal who was always at work, not at work. His head hurt, but he felt that he had stumbled on something important. He inhaled deeper and closed his eyes.

OK, when had he last seen them? Go back in time Sketch. He was eight years old and had his tongue stuck to a frozen flagpole. No, not that far . . . yesterday . . . yes, yesterday evening before knocking off time. He waited for the tape to rewind. Normal had been changing into his suit. Max had been--suddenly he tensed--she had been looking at the boss in a strange manner. Not unlike the strange manner in which she looked at him in his favorite fantasy involving Max, her motorcycle, a large tub of treacle and New York Philharmonic Orchestra. "NONONONONO!" His screams were quickly replaced by uncontrollable sobbing. Just say . . . just say it wasn't so.

Seeing OC attach herself to Max at the entrance and guide her back to the Ladies Room, Sketchy inserted his fist in his mouth and concealed himself behind some nearby lockers. He had to hear what they were saying . . . he had to know for sure.

"Tell your boo all about it." Cindy backed her friend into the little room, ignoring the door gaping open behind them.

"_Cindy_, it's kinda personal."

OC rolled her eyes. "OK just tell me if he . . . how you both . . .what exactly he did . . .." 

"What didn't he do . . . " Max sounded a little pissed with the interrogation, " . . . multiple times . . . all night." Gasp! Sketchy pushed his fist further back in his throat.

"Was it  . . . different? Y'know, given the givens."

Yeah, thought Sketchy, given that it was with such a miserable excuse for a human being.

"He was . . .very inventive . . . we did things I'd never dreamed of . . .in ways I'd never imagined . . . " Max relaxed into a smile " . . . the man was amazing. _OK_?"   

"OK then . . .. But, just spill some of the details . . . com'n Max. Y'know I don't keep any secrets from my boo." Sketchy peeked through the doorjamb, watching Cindy wringing her hands in frustration. Max looked a little repentant. Sketchy inclined an ear further in their direction.

"Bip-bip-bip-bip-bip." NO . . . not now. Would someone turn that damn muzak down. Oh no, now the girls had their backs to him, heads close together, discussing things he would sell his collection of Pamela Anderson action figures to hear. He ventured a little closer to the door straining to hear any snippet of conversation drifting his way.

". . .party . . . in the car wash then . . .." Oh, speak up for God's sake. " . . . slapping . . . all wet . . . then the parking garage . . .." Sketchy moved closer still. " . . . couldn't wait for the  elevator  . . . so the stairway . . .. Hey what's that groaning noise?"

"Don't hear nothin'. You're not goin' to tell me the juicy bits are you?"

"Have to leave something to the imagination. Of course, you'd need a pretty good imagination . . .. You know, I swear I can hear someone crying." Max was making for the door. Quickly, Sketchy slipped into a convenient locker, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

"Hey, they've got pigeon burgers at McDonald's." The unfortunate messenger relaying the good news from the front entrance was instantly trodden underfoot by a herd of protein deprived young people. Cindy, emerging from the restroom to investigate the commotion, was pushed aside in the melee and crashed into the locker door, trapping a weepy Sketchy inside.

"Rats!" he exclaimed at the latch clicked home.

"No, that was last week." Cindy rolled her eyes. That Sketchy was such a fool--she looked around in confusion--wherever he was. "C'mon boo, early lunch."  She and Max walked out into the rain sodden streets of Seattle, leaving a deserted Jampony behind, the usually bustling workplace silent except for the occasional "bip" . . .  "sob" . . .  "bip" . . . "sob" . . ..

***

Logan sat in the kitchen, holding the last container of Jell-O and looking thoughtful. Max hadn't returned his page from that afternoon. He knew that didn't necessarily mean anything, but given Max's skittishness where commitment was concerned, he couldn't help but fear the worst. He had to be careful not to scare her off; he should play it cool. 

"Hey." She announced her arrival with a shy smile. 

He wanted to grab her hand and run off with her to a desert island, where they would grow old together.  If they hurried, they could fling the remains of his art collection in the back of the Aztek, hit the pawnbrokers and make it to the airport before the last flight to somewhere tropical. "Hey yourself." He permitted himself an 'I'm happy to see you, in a noncommittal sort of way' smile and moved his wheels a quarter turn in her direction. "You hungry?"

"No," she cooed. "Sorry I didn't get back to you. I was busy all afternoon helping Normal reconstruct a daring robbery attempt he foiled last night. He distinctly remembers being shoved head first into a locker, after fighting off a rampaging hoard of package thieves."

"Did he take much convincing?"

"Not really. Twenty-one hours in a confined and isolated space aids the power of suggestion remarkably." 

'I bet."

Max took a step toward him, grinning. "You know about what happened." 

"After the fishpond . . . and the sector police barriers, and the impact with the dashboard, and the dust storm, and the fall down the flight of stairs."

'I was real emotional with all that was going on."

"I know."

"It's not . . ." desperately she looked into his eyes for understanding, leaned on the counter, and tilted her hips in the way that seemed to drive him crazy  ". . . like I meant to remove all your clothing and have my way with you."

"Me neither." He put the Jell-O down and grinned back.  "Take off your shirt."

"I mean . . ." She flung the scrap of fabric in his direction.

"Exactly." Logan dodged. "Come over here."

"So long as that's clear." She grinned as Logan scooped her onto his lap.

"I'm glad we talked about it." Although, it was really hard to carry on this heartfelt conversation with Max in that sexy black lace bra. Best just set it aside on the table for now. 

"Me too." She arched her back. "Maybe we should discuss it at length, in a more comfortable setting."

"Definitely, but my hands are full right now."

"Allow me."  Max started wheeling them down the hallway to the bedroom, doing her best to keep in a straight line.

***

And so, we leave our lovers to explore the intricacies of their relationship. Maybe someday they'll share the thrust of their discussion with us, but for now . . . CRASH . . . for now . . . 

"Logan move your fingers for a minute . . . ooohhhhh."

"Hey, I moved them didn't I." 

. . . for now . . ." OOOHHHHHH" . . . oh, for heaven's sake. I can't work under these conditions. Next season I'm writing Star Trek fan fiction—bet Picard and Troy don't behave in such an unprofessional manner . . .. Hey, what if Logan were bald—would Max would find that sexy? . . .. Think of the possibilities . . ..

* * *

Gee, now I'm not sure. The BBWW scene as originally written was very touching in its own way. Maybe I should go with the original and back to my alternate scenario where they never lay a hand on one another again . . ..


	9. Date

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?  
**AN: **1) Thanks to Star24 and Natters for the fast food idea.  
2) Any impending lawsuits from the fast food industry should be addressed to: National Director of Programming for the Fox Television Network, The Apartment over Pat's Pet Emporium, Muncie, Indiana.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 9: Date

Logan drove through the gloomy Seattle streets toward Jampony, his mind on Max and the change in their relationship. After all the months of dancing around each other, they had spent the last two weeks making up for their previous lack of intimacy at an exponential rate. Talking, meaningful looks, subtle innuendos, and emotional under currents had given way to mind-blowing sex at every available opportunity. They just couldn't seem to be in each other's presence without discarding all their clothing and attacking one another. Fortunately, they hadn't ventured to any public places, or rather any attempt to leave his apartment together hadn't made it past the elevator, the parking garage, or the janitor's broom closet. 

It wasn't that he wanted things to slow down, or that he was tiring of hard surfaces and cramped quarters, he just wanted to make sure he did nothing to mess up this relationship. On the one hand, he didn't want her to feel that all he wanted was to have sex all the time. On the other, he didn't want her to feel threatened by his eagerness for a commitment between them. Considering what he really wanted was to live the rest of his life with her, having sex all the time he'd better learn to keep his mouth shut and his wits about him.

Logan had considered the best approach to his predicament, and decided that what they needed to help get things into perspective was a good old-fashioned courtship. They had missed an important step in their relationship—dating—and now was the ideal time to set that right. He sighed, frustrated by his inability to treat her to the type of evening she deserved. He would have liked to cash in the remains of his dwindling art collection and take her to the best restaurant in town followed by a night of passion at the city's most exclusive hotel, but that would pretty much expose his two dirty little secrets.

She was such a free spirit, not ready to be tied down. Well, that wasn't strictly true, she actually quite enjoyed being tied down. Logan rolled down the window as he pulled into the parking lot and breathed in the cold, polluted Seattle air, trying to banish that particular memory from his mind. Tonight wasn't about sex or commitment, it was about fun and flirtation. He inhaled sharply, choking on the refreshing night smog, as he saw her emerging from the building, hips swaying in those tight blue jeans and her stunning smile aimed in his direction. He could hear violins amid the sound of surly messengers hurling obscenities at their boss as they headed off for the weekend; could picture her floating gracefully toward him in something white and lacy--no, no, focus—something long and demure _and _white and lacy . . . yes, with a flowing train and flower girls scattering rose petals at her feet. Oh God, it was going to be a long night.

***

Logan smiled, half listening, as they headed for the restaurant and Max railed against Normal and his latest entrepreneurial efforts. She was so cute when she was mad. Apparently, the recognition of her boss's heroic defeat of the package thieving gang had gone to his head and he was sprucing up the operation in an effort to take full advantage of the free publicity. Max was tired of it all she said: tired of cleaning and painting, polishing up bikes and getting fitted for a uniform. 

Suddenly Logan's hearing improved drastically.  "What's this about a uniform?" Images of Max decked out in navy blue, sporting buttons and epaulettes filled his mind. The only thing sexier than a strong woman, was a strong woman in uniform. "What color is it?" Max glared at him suspiciously, as if she could see right into the darkest recesses of his imaginings. Careful—remember the cute/mad combination only worked when her wrath was directed at persons other than himself. He was pretty sure any direct experience of Max's wrath would fall under the intensely painful/mad category. Quickly he erased the silk stockings and high heels he had added to the form fitting military style jacket and skirt. 

"It's dark blue. At least I think it is. It's in my back pack."

"_What_?" Frantically he tapped the brakes, trying not to pant too loudly, and glanced around at the small bag flying off the back seat. "It'll get wrinkled and . . .." Careful . . . careful.

"It'll be fine. Just drive, I'm starving."

Logan applied his mind to following her directions to the restaurant. Being a liberated woman, she had insisted on covering dinner as he was springing for the movie. He had been a little apprehensive when she had told him they were going to McDonald's, memories of his grandmother's descriptions of their Scottish ancestors preparation of haggis foremost in his mind. Before leaving home, he had checked out the establishment's web site and had not only discovered that no disemboweling of sheep would be involved, but that he should probably change out of his tux before departing. Actually, he was kind of looking forward to "fast food". His only other exposure to it being when the Cale cook had burned the Sunday roast and had to cook up poached salmon with aspic in a hurry.

"Know what. Just pull into this Burger King. I need to eat right now."

Logan sighed, his heart set on McDonald's and discovering just what a Happy Meal entailed, but complied with her request/order.

They were barely inside the door when Logan recognized the burly form behind the counter. He had heard Bill Clinton had been banished to the west coast and was now working in the hospitality industry, but had assumed it was something on the executive level.  Still, he shouldn't be surprised, those Bush twins were ruthless. Bill's little faux pas in referring to one of the dictator's as a dufus after one too many toasts during a speaking engagement had obviously been met with a swift and terrible retribution. Of course, Hillary had bailed years before having grown weary of the limitations of democracy, and had set up a totalitarian regime in Utah. However, nobody had really paid much attention to that—it was Utah for God's sake. But Bill . . . well it was a sad, if somewhat poetic ending.

Bill was looking well, although he had obviously been sampling the merchandize. He smiled broadly as Max approached. "Like a whopper little lady?"

_What!_  Ex-president or no, Logan was going to teach the twerp some manners. The man hadn't changed a bit. He wheeled up to the counter, ready to defend Max's honor.

"No, let's make it a whopper junior."

Good one Max. Put the little creep in his place. God, he loved strong women. 

"A junior on the double, Junior." The former politician chuckled heartily as Al detached himself from the soda machine while muttering something about ramming a Diet Coke down a philandering, career wrecking, buffoon's throat. "And get back here on the double before the pop starts to warm up again." Bill chuckled some more while excusing his business partner's discourteous attitude. 

In hushed tones he explained that ever since Tipper had taken to writing rap music lyrics and Al's attempt to legislate mandatory testing of basic math, English and eye hand coordination for old ladies in Florida had been shot down by the ACLU, Al had become a bitter man. He was prone to insulting old time friends and speed pitching chicken tenders to old dears who flocked to the joint for Bill's 4 p.m. specials. Quickly, he changed the subject as his VP came within earshot. "Nice weather we're having, if it wasn't for the rain." Al snarled a comment at him and returned to his job of chilling the drinks.

"Sorry folks, we seem to be out of meat." Bill shook his head apologetically; resting his cigar on the ashtray conveniently perched on the ledge created by his ample belly.

Yeah, wonder why. Logan sighed. The world had really gone to hell in a hand basket.

***

Logan pondered as they drove through the rain toward the movie theatre. American popular culture never ceased to fascinate and amaze him, and McDonald's had truly been an eye-opening experience. His first impression of the place had been that it was made entirely out of plastic; chairs, tables, everything--right down to the Chicken McNuggets. Max had generously volunteered to eat his nine-piece serving, along with two Big Macs, a square fish, and what looked like a large package of fried toothpicks. 

However, that was not to say he hadn't enjoyed the whole experience. The kiddie cone the charming child at the adjoining table had tossed in his direction was actually delicious, and the child's equally charming sibling had demonstrated that the nuggets made excellent strategic projectiles. Ah, America . . . the land of invention and creativity.

Even better, there were no former politicians in sight. It was reassuring to see that even plastic restaurants with food served entirely encased in paper products had their standards. In fact, the chain had, in an attempt at promoting good taste, employed Martha Stewart as its spokesperson. 

Alas, the pulse hadn't been kind to the interior design business. Putting tutus on oranges for Christmas just wasn't on people' s list of priorities anymore. No, the years hadn't been kind to the former advocate of etiquette and social niceties, and that life size model of her in a stripy outfit, big shoes and a red wig did nothing to redeem her former image. However, Logan encouraged the charming children's mother in her efforts to force her terrified offspring to sit next to the effigy for a cute photo opportunity. 

His reverie was cut short by a heartfelt sigh from Max.  "Let's go to your place and watch a video instead."

"But I'm taking you to the movies. It's a date."

"We'll get soaked waiting in line." Well that was true. _Star Wars, Episode -22 ½ _had only been out a couple of weeks and, with movie releases being few and far between, the lines were long and soggy.

"But it's a date."

"Maybe I'll try on my new uniform. Actually, it's only . . . "

Her words were drowned out by the sound of tires squealing as the Aztec hung a 180 degree turn and burned rubber in the direction of Fogle Towers.

***

Logan was browsing through his video collection and trying to sound preoccupied and nonchalant while listening to the sound of Max moving around in the bedroom. "So, let's see the new uniform."  

"I hope you won't be disappointed," she yelled back. "After buying all the paint and cleaning supplies all Normal could afford were the hats."

Logan's heart sank. "How's it taking so long to put the uniform on then."

"Who said anything about putting things _on_. I thought you wanted to see me in just the uniform." She walked into the living room; hat perched on her head backwards.

Logan adjusted his glasses and re-assessed the situation. "That's a great uniform."

"Thought you'd like it."

"As long as you're not riding your bike around Seattle like that. Although, feel free to do that around the apartment . . . you don't have the bike with you, I suppose?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'll bring it next time, Logan."

"So, you want to come over here and make a delivery?"

"Don't know, what kinda tip you offering?"

"A big one." Well, she couldn't argue with that.

She began a slow, seductive saunter across the room. "You know, a lot of guys come to the door with no shirts on."

"That seems kinda impolite." He pulled his black T over his head and reached for Max, now standing directly in front of him.

"Hey, messengers don't have to deliver if someone grabs their ass."

"Here let me make it up to you then." 

"Oh yeah? Just how are you going to do tha . . . aaahhhhh . . .. "

Maybe it was rude not to reply to her inquiry, especially on their first date, but Logan felt sure she wouldn't mind waiting until he was free to speak again. Though it may take a while . . . fast just really wasn't all it was cracked up to be.


	10. Weekend

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.   
**Summary:  **Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?   
What? OK, just ignore the summary for this chapter.****  
**AN: **Rated R for violence, language, sex and plagiarism.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever  
Chapter 10: Weekend****

Logan leaned forward in the driver's seat of the Aztek, straining to see any sign of Max. She'd been in the warehouse complex for forty minutes now, way past the time estimated in his carefully thought out plan. He shouldn't have sent her into such a dangerous situation he thought, not for the first time. Lately, he'd had her running all over doing his grunt work in a city gone mad with crime and corruption, while he sat on his butt and waited . . . as usual. He pounded his fist on the dashboard in frustration. 

The sudden increase in gang warfare and the rise in vigilantism had kept Eyes Only going non-stop for the last few weeks; that and the eruption into violence of a vicious rivalry between girl-scout troops competing for cookie sales. Only yesterday the leader of the "Little Princesses" had been pummeled senseless with a pack of ten year old Mint Creams as she escorted her charges on door to door sales in an upscale neighborhood of Seattle. It was a terrible scene for the young and innocent to witness, but at least Eyes Only had brought the perpetrator to justice. Fortunately, that particular incident had not been troop related. Just an irate resident troubled by one too many Brownie's hawking a $20 pack of Lemon Delights. What was the world coming to? He sighed and looked at his watch, by the time this job was done it would be too late to go post Margo's bail.

There was so much work to be done; yet, Max had managed to talk him into taking her to the cabin for the weekend. Lately, she seemed to be able to wrap him around her little finger—although it wasn't her little finger he was wrapped around when he'd agreed to the suggestion. Maybe she was right and he needed some down time. It would help regain his edge and focus. He had been feeling tired, stressed and distracted. Yes, he could write the weekend off for the good of his health.

The slamming of the car door creating a sonic boom alerted him to Max's return. He was about to ask her if she had the disks when he noticed that she was wet and muddy. This was not good—no, wet and muddy did not bring out the finer qualities of Max's personality. Quickly he closed his mouth and looked directly ahead as they screeched out of the alleyway. 

"You _said_ no security and no water. That would imply no 250 pound watchmen _and _no mud puddles to fall into." In thundering silence, they drove to her apartment building. "Pick me up at seven in the morning." The crash of the side mirror falling off as she closed the door behind her almost obliterated her parting words. He could just make out something about damn well better having smores with him. Logan sighed as he started his solitary homeward journey. Yes, the weekend away would be for the good of his health; if he didn't go Max would kill him.

* * *

Logan frowned as they pulled up in front of the grungy tavern. As they had traveled northward the weather had become progressively worse, until they were driving through a full blown storm. It was only a few miles to the cabin and if he hadn't been worried about not being able to get a supply of milk for the weekend he wouldn't even have stopped here, but continued on for the shelter of his family's weekend retreat. 

A sleepless night had done nothing to allay his feelings of guilt at having Max doing all his legwork. In the small hours of the morning, he had gone from worrying that weariness had added to her crankiness and apparent lack of coordination the previous evening, to concerns about her health. What if she were having seizures again? It had been a long time since he had seen any evidence of one, but it was something Max might keep from him. That morning he had made sure he had a supply of tryptophan in his bag before setting out early for the market on his way to pick up Max.

A tour of the supermarkets of Seattle had eventually yielded marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars, but no milk. He was unwilling to leave the city without a supply of the seizure fighting drink, but the thought of having Max waiting for him made him give up on his quest with the hope that they could find some along the way. 

He was only a few minutes late, but Max had glared at him as he pulled up to the sidewalk. She threw her bag in the back of the vehicle and herself down in the passenger seat without a word. He had sighed quietly; his hopes that the smore provisions would ease her bad humor squashed, along with the bag of marshmallows she had just sat on. However, as the last sector checkpoint vanished into the distance and the green countryside enveloped them the tension soon eased, until they had fallen into a companionable silence. She had even seemed touched by his insistence on stopping along the way in search of dairy products. 

The inn in the small town close to the cabin was a last resort--in more ways than one. It had a bad reputation, definitely not the kind of place to bring a lady. Max yawned and stretched, ignoring his request that she stay in the vehicle while he inquired about milk supplies. She ran through the rain and was at the bar ordering burgers before he maneuvered his way through the doorway. 

She smiled as he wheeled up beside her. "Want to shoot some pool while we wait for our food?"

Logan cringed inwardly at the thought of eating here. Max would probably survive food poisoning, even botulism, without batting an eyelid—he, however, would die a slow and painful death. "Sure, mind if I break?" Maybe the distraction of a competitive game would take her mind off food--yeah, maybe a bout in the coliseum with a few dozen lions and a couple of bloodthirsty gladiators. 

Woah, nice break. He hadn't lost his touch. Noticing Max looking impressed out of the corner of his eye, he found himself a little upset when he missed the corner pocket a few shots later. He wheeled back to the bar as Max set up her shot, and was cheered by the barman's affirmative on his request for a jug of milk to go. Turning back to the table, he watched Max ease into the shot gracefully. 

"Nice." Logan heard the leering voice and hoots of agreement behind him. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to figure out the object of the louts' admiration. How dare they lay eyes on Max and treat her in such a demeaning fashion. He felt his blood boil with indignation.

"You got a problem?" He noticed Max stiffen almost imperceptibly as he faced off against the scruffy creep.

"No man, I ain't got no problem. I'm just enjoying the view." Beady eyes continued to survey Max's posterior.

"Why don't you go enjoy the view from your cave?" He saw Max turn as he spoke, just before the dirty expanse of ceiling claimed his attention and his back hit the floor.

"_Ha-Haaaaaaagh_." Lout # 1's whoop of glee was cut short as his head bounced off the concrete floor. Logan couldn't help but smile at the speed of his reflexes in grabbing the guy's shirt collar on the way down. He hoped Max was suitably impressed also. No time for gloating though, Lout # 2 was heading for him. He heard the crack as Max broke the pool stick over her knee and saw the look of surprise on her face as #2 disappeared from her line of vision. Man, lying on the floor really gave one a whole new perspective on barroom brawling. Yanking people's legs out from under them was a piece of cake from this angle. 

Oh-Oh, # 3 was creeping up on Max as she stood stick at the ready in fighting stance, although her bemused expression and mouth hanging open did little to add to the air of danger she usually managed to exude. If he pulled the corner of that dirty floor mat with just the right acceleration . . . "_aaaaarrhhh_" . . .  _SPLAT_! . . . "_ooohh_ my back " . . . yes, she wouldn't have to trouble herself with the ignorant brut at all. 

Lout #1 was stirring, though his eyes were moving strangely, as if following the flight pattern a tweety bird circling his head.

"Max, give me that pitcher of milk." Obligingly, she scooped the jug off the counter and handed it to him. 

"Er . . . Logan." He could just about hear her over the spluttering sounds assaulting his ears. "The pitcher isn't big enough for his head."

"Nonsense."

 Logan rammed a little harder until the pleas of "NOOOO . . . not milk," echoed around him in a gurgling sort of way.

"Apologize to my girlfriend."

"Get this !!@#$ thing off me . . . gurgle . . . gurgle . . .."

"Watch your language, there's a lady present." He sat the ruffian up and delivered a sharp tap to the bottom of the pitcher. "Max! Step back! Your shoes will get milky."

"_O-o-o-U-u-u-Ch-h-h_, splutter, splutter."

"The lady's waiting."

"Sorry." Not sorry enough apparently. A swift pull on the handle of the pitcher and the goon was out like a light again.

"You all right?" His voice was full of concern. "I'm sorry you had to put up with those disrespectful idiots."

"I . . . I'm fine." She watched, seeming a little dazed, as Logan lifted himself gingerly back into the chair.

He turned impatiently in the doorway. "Another pitcher barkeep."

"Yessir."

Max took the milk from the bartender's shaking hands and stared at the man sitting by the door.

"Well, come on then woman."

She shook her head, grinned, and followed him out into the stormy night.

* * *

Max lay on the bed, trying to sort out the emotions assaulting her. What the hell had happened back in that bar? She was having cognitive difficulty assimilating the new side to Logan she had witnessed and even more difficulty handling her reaction to it. She wasn't some lily-faced maiden tied to the train tracks, waiting for her hero to ride in and rescue her . . . was she? She had a brief image of Logan charging into her presence on horseback and decided to leave the psychological analysis for a more opportune time. Right now she should be gathering data—yes, this aspect of Logan demanded immediate and intimate exploration. 

Leaping to her feet, she saw her reflection in the dressing table mirror and frowned. OC had convinced her to buy this lace and satin bit of nothing she had just wiggled into. She herself didn't see the point of it. She either had clothes on or not, and alone in Logan presence preferably the latter. Still, Cindy insisted it would drive roller boy wild, not that that would be a problem tonight.

Max smiled, recalling the final leg of the journey to the cabin: a sweaty, tousled Logan battling through the storm to bring her to safety, having defended her honor and leaving the opposition in a tangled heap on the barroom floor. She had almost been able to hear the pounding of his heart and smell the testosterone wafting across the interminable distance between the front seats of the Aztek. 

It had been all she could do to stop from flinging him onto the bearskin rug in front of the hearth and having her way with him the instant they had arrived, but he had insisted and going outside to chop some wood for the fire. Although, it was probably best to let him work off some of the hormone overload—he was an enthusiastic lover under normal circumstance and she didn't want him doing himself an injury. No, they had an entire weekend to get through. 

Impatiently, she walked to the sitting room window and peered outside. Funny, there was no sign of him by the woodpile, where was he? 

"Yeah, where is he?" she said as she  . . ."_I said, _where the hell is he."

_What_?

"Can't type and process dialog at the same time? Why doesn't that surprise me? Now, listen up lady. What have you done with him this time?"

What the . . .. Get back in the story.

"What have you done with him? Tell me NOW."

_Gulp!_ Well . . . he's fine . . . at least he will be . . . eventually. Hey, back up . . .. OK, OK. The thugs discovered where you guys were staying and are busy beating him up. NO STOP . . . I've got a husband and a parrot to take care of. You're going to go out and find them and you and Logan will fight the creeps off together.

"Do I look like I'm dressed for an action sequence?"

Fortunately, you packed that black cat suit thingy. Listen, it'll be great. You'll strengthen the growing bond between you over a few bloody corpses and Logan will feel like a "real" man, yet again. It's a great plot development and . . . 

"Unless you want to dangle from the lead to that keyboard over the lake out back, I suggest you get him back here NOW."

I won't compromise the integrity of my writing. 

"Oh Yeah? Let's see how far this mouse will go up your nose . . ."

Having fought off the thugs, Logan wheeled wearily toward the door of the cabin. The wind howled and the rain fell in torrents around him . . .

"Faster."

I can only type 10 wpm.

"Then cut the weather crap. I want him on the doorstep in ten seconds flat."

Suddenly Logan appeared in the doorway, wet and disheveled from his encounter with the storm.

"Take off his shirt." 

The gusting winds had ripped the shirt off his back.

"Let's see him with black hair."

No. I can't change my character's appearance on a whim.

"_Your_ character? Listen lady . . . a nice long dunk in the lake and a letter to Cameron about what you've been doing to his baby."

"Logan's jet black hair glistened in the incandescent lighting."

"Eyes."

His brown eyes were filled with exhaustion . . . no? . . . longing . . . OK, lust dammit . . . filled with lust.

"Come here big boy."

Well, I can see you don't need _me_ anymore.

"Not so fast. I'd like a hot tub in the livingroom."

I'm out of here and you're a few keystrokes away from a nasty genetically engineered virus.

"What kind of stupid idea is that? Here let me help you out the door."

_OUCH! _

_SLAM! _

Hey, it's cold out here, you could at least give me a coat. 

THAT's IT! Those damn writers were right: that girl needs more problems in her life. Yeah, I've been making things way too easy for her. Well, look out girlie, I've got plans for chapter err…whatever the next one is . . . yes, big plans . . ..  And to think of what I've done for that ungrateful hussy. Not, to mention what I've let her do to Logan. Well, she'd better enjoy this stinking weekend because . . . _aarrgghhh_ . . . damn mud puddle . . . does it always have to rain in this God forsaken state  . . . we'll see who had the last laugh . . . we'll just see. . .


End file.
